A LONG LITTLE FINGER
Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men and found Papa Tignol waiting for him, his face troubled even to the tip of his luminous purple nose. In vain the old man tried to show interest in a neighboring game of dominoes; the detective saw at a glance that his faithful friend had heard the bad news and was mourning over it.
"Ah, M. Paul," cried Tignol. "This is a pretty thing they tell me. Nom d'un chien, what a pack of fools they are!"
"Not so loud," cautioned Coquenil with a quiet smile. "It's all right, Papa Tignol, it's all for the best."
"All for the best?" stared the other. "But if you're off the force?"
"Wait a little and you'll understand," said the detective in a low tone, then as the tavern door opened: "Here is Pougeot! I telephoned him. Good evening, Lucien," and he shook hands cordially with the commissary, whose face wore a serious, inquiring look. "Will you have something, or shall we move on?" and, under his breath, he added: "Say you don't want anything."
"I don't want anything," obeyed Pougeot with a puzzled glance.
"Then come, it's a quarter past ten," and tossing some money to the waiter, Coquenil led the way out.
Drawn up in front of the tavern was a taxi-auto, the chauffeur bundled up to the ears in bushy gray furs, despite the mild night. There was a leather bag beside him.
"Is this your man?" asked Pougeot.